Winter Night
by GreyMurphy
Summary: In the aftermath of Ron's death, Harry and Hermione grieve in their own ways. Harry/Hermione, but not really romance-centric. T, but if people think it needs to be upgraded, let me know.


AN: I don't own Harry Potter, and I can't take credit for the sexual tension between Harry and Hermione in the 6th and 7th movies. By the 8th movie, however, that still wasn't me.

Under the weak starlight of a cold winter night, two souls found themselves twisting and turning together beneath a thatch roof beside the ocean. The trio had just escaped from the Malfoy's house but had lost Ron, and Harry and Hermione had been left feeling lost and hopeless. As they had been popped away by Dobby, Bellatrix had thrown her knife, and the blade had struck true into the heart of the redheaded lion.

The two teens had held their dying friend in their arms on the beach just shy of Shell Cottage, and with his final words, had charged the two to "kill that bastard, be happy, and tell my mum I'm sorry." He had clasped their hands and breathed his last, just as Bill had blasted toward them on a broom. Harry and Bill had dug, by hand, a grave near to the cabin in a little copse of trees defiantly standing tall against the cold winter sea-wind.

They had barely exchanged a few words, but Harry had quietly explained what they were doing, what they were searching for, and what had happened leading up to their escape. Bill simply nodded, eyes red and an occasional tear falling down his face and continued to dig. They had placed several charms on Ron's body, and buried him in a conjured coffin, temporarily, until they could give him a proper burial after the war.

Harry had remained standing at the foot of the grave until after the sun had set, only turning away after Bill and Fleur had come out and gently steered him back toward the house. Just shy of the door, Bill paused his hand on Harry's shoulder. He motioned for his wife to head inside, murmuring that they would be inside in a moment.

He turned Harry toward him and slightly shook his shoulders. "Harry. Harry, look at me. Come on Harry, look at me." The raven-haired teen tore his eyes up from the ground in front of him and looked at Bill. His emerald eyes were hard and dry. They were the eyes of a seasoned veteran, and of a man without anything left to lose. But they also held an immense guilt. "I need you to understand something, Harry. I do not blame you for Ron's death. Neither will my parents. But you need to get it through your skull right now. You. Will not. Blame. Yourself. Do you hear me? The bitch is going to pay, soon, but you are not to blame for what happened to Ron."

Harry looked away, still feeling the gnaw of guilt inside. Bill sighed, knowing he wouldn't be able to get through to him, at least right now. But he also knew he had to get through soon, or Harry might do something foolish.

The two entered a scene neither man expected. In the middle of a flying storm of objects sat a huddled figure with messy brown hair. Fleur was looking a little lost but was trying to push her way toward Hermione. She made a little progress, only to lose it all at a particularly strong gust. Bill rushed over to her, shielding his eyes as best he can and calling out to Hermione.

Harry remained frozen at the door for a moment, before moving slowly toward the crying girl. The raging storm seemed to flow around him, not affecting him at all. He reached Hermione, knelt to the ground, and pulled the crying girl into his arms. She immediately latched onto him, and the storm died down. All the flying objects lowered gently to the ground, and Bill and Fleur, after overcoming their shock, quickly repaired any broken objects and put them back where they belonged.

Hermione continued to sob into Harry's shirt, holding onto him desperately.

It could have been minutes or hours for all the movement around them, Bill and Fleur having long ago retreated to their own room, but eventually, Hermione quietened and Harry chanced a look down at her face.

Her tears had left their mark on her normally so self-assured features, her cheeks were blotchy, and her nose was still a little runny. She continued to have an occasional tear leak down her face, even in sleep. And Harry vowed at that moment to never allow anything to hurt his Hermione this way ever again, even if he had to die to accomplish it. He gathered her up and began toward the stairs.

Harry found the door left open for the two of them, and carefully maneuvered Hermione and himself through the door. The room had been enlarged, and two beds were made, nearby each other, but Harry hardly noticed. He gently laid the sleeping witch down on the bed next to the window and started to remove her trainers. Gradually, and with great care not to wake her, Harry got her down to her knickers and t-shirt, how she preferred to sleep back in the tent.

With great care, he tucked her in, before leaning down and softly kissing her temple. It nearly broke his heart to walk away, even the few feet to the other bed. He quickly and quietly stripped down to just his jeans and transfigured them into a pair of sleep shorts. He crawled into bed, as softly as his aching body would let him, but he couldn't help but let out a few soft moans.

At these sounds of Harry's discomfort, Hermione stirred, and Harry inwardly hit himself.

"-arry? Wuz wrong?" Hermione rasped out.

"It's nothing 'Mione, go back to sleep. I'm just sore." Harry hoped she would follow his suggestion. She needed it after that display of magic downstairs, on top of the emotional stress, she was under.

She ignored him and sat up, turning toward his shadowy form. "Where does it hurt?" she asked, as she swung her legs out of bed and walked the short distance to his. Harry suppressed the annoyed look he wanted to shoot her, and gestured to his back and his side, along with where Bellatrix had scored the slash marks with that nasty leather switch of hers.

Hermione grabbed the little, sequined bag from the bedside table between the beds and reached in. Her hand emerged with a little bottle, labeled Essence of Dittany.

Harry saw her handshake a little as she looked at the bottle, and reached out and grabbed it as it started to slip from her hand. He set it down, before taking the shaking girl into his arms and holding her close. Tears started to stream down her face once more, but there wasn't a sound coming from her. Her body still shook from silent sobs, but the tears came noiselessly, falling like a soft rain on the warm comforter they were sitting on. They stayed that way for an unknown time, just two friends grieving for their lost third.

Sooner or later the sobs stopped, and Hermione withdrew a little from Harry's arms. He didn't let go, but he loosened his hold and looked down at her face. She was preoccupied tracing the scars along his arm and shoulder and didn't meet his eyes at first. When her hand finally stilled, and her chocolate brown eyes finally met his emerald green ones, he held up the bottle of Dittany.

"Any chance you can help a guy out?" he said with a little smile.

A wet, choking laugh escaped from her, and Hermione grabbed the bottle from him, popping it open and pouring a small amount into her hands. She gestured for him to turn around, and he did so. A second later, and he felt her warm hands, coated with Dittany begin to massage his upper back and sides, where the bruising was deepest and the angry red welts were the worst. Slowly, they all started to fade, and within 10 minutes Harry felt much better.

But Hermione simply poured a few more drops onto her hands and gestured for him to turn around once more. Harry curiously complied.

The brunette witch began to work her hands over his upper body, along the long scar lines tracing his shoulders and his chest, and moving ever downward toward his abdomen, where a heavy criss-cross of angry red lines was. Bellatrix had thought it funny to whack at him so close to his privates, without actually doing so. But she had gotten dangerously close.

Just as she was about to start massaging there, Harry grabbed her wrists gently, causing her to look up at him. He sent a piercing stare at her, trying to divine her intentions. He saw something in her eyes he wasn't familiar with, a hunger that he wasn't sure whether he could, should fill.

"I can do that part if you don't want to go any lower," Harry said quietly, intensely. He was no stranger to what could happen if she continued, but he was not willing to be a rebound or a reaction to Ron's loss.

Hermione tilted her head to the side a little. "I don't mind. Let me help," she replied with equal intensity.

Harry looked deeper into her eyes. Did she know what she was saying, just going this far? What her very presence incited in him, how she made him feel?

He decided to be blunt. "Are you sure you want this? That it- I don't know, that it's not just a reaction?" Harry shook his head. "I don't think I could handle losing you too, Hermione. I don't want to risk this, us, for something so passing as grief."

Hermione looked up at him, her brown eyes filled with the remnants of tears, but also determination.

"You're not a rebound Harry. I've been feeling like this for months, ever since that night, we danced in the tent. When Ron came back, I was almost ready to tell you, but then everything happened so quickly, I just-"

Harry shushed her gently, as tears again came into her eyes. He gathered her in close and held her once more.

A few moments later, she drew back and wiped her eyes once more, before looking back up at Harry. They stayed that way for an everlasting second, before their lips met, eyes closed, and their world began to fade away.

AN: Take it or leave it, but please leave a review. I wrote it in sort of a depressed funk after I finished a 13-hour reading spree, so it's kind of trashy, but it also feels good to post something again. Check out my author page for updates, but just know that I am way more optimistic in those than is reasonable (and I'm already pretty pessimistic).


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